Four Straight in Athens, With Rose on the Wrong Side
Cleveland State63
Ohio42
- Game
- 2031 Week 8
- Site
- Away
- Result
- Win
- Record
- 8-0
VIKINGS 63, OHIO 42. IN ATHENS. EIGHT AND OH.
Twenty-one points of daylight against the two-time defending national champions, in their building. Folks, that’s four straight trips to Athens and four straight wins: 2025, 2027, 2029, and now 2031. Every other year, like a comet. A big green comet.
But I want to tell you where I watched it, because I’ll never do this again. I watched it in the Ohio section. With Bridget, and Eli, and Rose. Bridget had tickets in the family section, and she said, “Dad, you’re sitting with us, and you’re wearing this,” and handed me a plain gray sweatshirt. No logo. A neutral sweatshirt. I wore it. I sat in a sea of Bobcat green holding my granddaughter, who was wearing her green Ohio onesie, while our guys scored sixty-three points.
I didn’t cheer. I couldn’t. I just held Rose and whispered the score to her every time it changed. Eli, next to me, whispered, “Sir, you can cheer. Nobody here will hurt you.” I said, “Eli, I’m holding a baby in an Ohio onesie. It’s not about them.” He understood.
Five pierogi. Eaten later, in Cleveland, loudly.
A twenty-one-point win in Athens over an undefeated, two-time defending national champion. The Vikings are eight and oh. Ohio has its first loss.
I’ll offer the honest analysis: this is the best Vikings win I’ve seen in a regular season. Not the closest; the best. They went into the home of the team that has won the last two national titles and controlled the game. That doesn’t happen by luck.
And yet I’ll repeat what I’ve learned: the Vikings beat Ohio in Athens every other year. Ohio finds them later. Ohio found them in January of 2030. Ohio found them in the semifinal last year. I’m not predicting anything. I’m reporting a pattern.
Sal’s third nail is still empty. Mickey checked Monday. Sal said, “Long season, Mick.”
My father, Sunday, a good day: “Ohio’s always tough, Kenny.” I said, “We won by twenty-one, Dad.” He said, “I know. I’m talking about later.” He’s seventy-nine years old. He knows about later.
Back and forth
I sat in the Ohio section in a gray sweatshirt.
That’s the bravest thing anyone in this column has ever done. Including me, and I wrote about a jewelry store.
Your dad said “later.”
He knows about later. Everybody in Athens knows about later.
Four straight wins in Athens, a grandfather holding a baby in an Ohio onesie in a neutral sweatshirt, and a father in Sarasota who knows about later.
Split Decision is fiction. Mickey Bridges, Ken Hogmanes and The Lakefront Ledger are invented; the games and scores are not.